She bobbed her head.
What will Ta’armion think? I am scared, dearest cousin. Petrified.
Marry him, quick,
said Nak.
Then, you can be all the Dragoness he desires.
I don’t know why he’s still waiting.
Lyriela’s evident distress put paid to Nak’s teasing. The old man turned to muttering dark imprecations about Princes who jilted innocent young maidens without so much as a word of explanation. His fulminations quickly developed into the Prince being barbecued in a handy volcano, slowly.
Oyda directed a significant glance in Aranya’s direction. Aye. She could most certainly fly across the caldera to Fra’anior Island and breathe a little fire beneath a tardy, uncaring Prince. It would be her pleasure.
Lyriela,
said Aranya,
I’ll help you learn how to be a Dragon. And Nak is a great teacher. Now, what did you mean by ‘the sevenfold power’?
The vow you spoke with the Dragon Ardan. It multiplied in power because of the … because of the soul-fire, then the seven times …
Lyriela faltered at Nak’s knowing snigger. She added,
I knew there was something unnatural about the storm, Aranya. You generated it. But I misspoke. It’s not seven times seven, but seven to the power of seven.
A hundred-year storm resulting from soul-fire breathed and simple vows spoken by two Shapeshifters at the edge of the world? The power of sevens? If that were true, the Island-World was a stranger place than she had ever imagined. Fleetingly, Aranya rode an echo of the storm. She revelled in its raw ferocity. Seen from above, the storm had spanned half the world. If anyone had a right to be scared, it was her.
She had never wanted such power.
Do I have to be as fierce as you, Aranya?
Lyriela asked.
And hunt for my meals?
Nak beamed at Lyriela.
Thou shalt outshine the very raiment of the heavens, Dragoness. Thy breath shall fire our Islands as with the suns of dawn. And the Island-World shall tremble before thy revealed majesty, thou queen of the uncharted aerial domains.
He means to say ‘aye’,
said Oyda, regarding him with great fondness.
Thou, my soul’s fire.
Thou, the Dragonsong of my hearts.
Aranya’s own heart jumped in response. A sweeter echo than before, the very words she and Ardan had spoken.
Did your Dragons teach you to say things like that?
“Petal, Dragons are the most romantic creatures in this Island-World,” said Oyda. “They’re worse than my Nak when it comes to soppy poetry and sweet endearments. ‘Thou, my third heart.’ ‘Thou, the moons above my Island.’ ‘Thou, the breeze beneath my wings.’ Windroc droppings and piles of sizzling sheep fat.”
“My sweet Oyda,” Nak tittered. “Poetry’s just honey dripping from her tongue.”
To her embarrassment, Aranya’s stomach growled at the mention of sheep fat. Delicious, said her Dragoness. Disgusting, said her Human brain. Nak’s cackling from the couch opposite was no help at all. Oyda rebuked him sternly, rounding off a fine tirade with, “Say something worthwhile, thou fool of a husband.”
“Very well,” said Nak. “A Dragon’s soul-fire is an ancient magic, as your Black Dragon pointed out, Aranya. It is also an exceedingly rare power, a secret jealously guarded by the Ancient Dragons. Legend claims that Istariela and Fra’anior exchanged the soul-fire. The Pygmy Dragon’s tale would be incomplete without the fiery love she breathed with Silver. Petal, once you breathed the soul-fire with your dark Dragon, your fate was sealed. You stood no chance–just as a Shifter has no choice about assuming their fundamental nature, their Dragon form. Such magic is not to be trifled with. It … changes things. Fates. The course of the Island-World. Minor details like that.”
He dared to echo the Black Dragon’s warning? Aranya opened her mouth in protest, but Nak cut her off, adding, “I wish I understood why Fra’anior hounds you over this, my precious petal. Do you think it could be connected to your mother, somehow? Or to some Ancient Dragon power he wishes you did not possess?”
“Such as the power to facilitate his brethren’s return to our world?” asked Aranya, voicing the concern uppermost in her thinking.
Stillness gripped the little company gathered in the cosy sitting-room of Lyriela’s cottage. Aranya wished she had not opened her mouth to utter such ill-omened words. Was she not inviting calamity? Was Fra’anior listening, even now?
Oyda stood abruptly. “Who’s for another cup of tea?”
“Well, that would turn a few Islands on their heads,” said Nak, tapping his cane on the floor for emphasis. “Aranya, we can’t allow that to happen. Ever. They’d make the Sylakians seem like … like … Islands’ sakes, even I’m lost for words. We’d breathe new life into the Dragonwars and cast whole Islands of people into the abyss.”
Aranya leaned forward. “Nak, tell me about the Pygmy Dragon. What powers did she have? Do I remember rightly, she was Onyx in colour?”
He said, “As in, ‘Seek the Onyx, daughter of the storm. She’s my child’?”
‘The child of my spirit,’ said Aranya. “There’s a difference. Obviously, I’m not a child of anything he fancies. I’m the child of his wrathful right paw.”
And if Fra’anior was listening, he could just stuff that down all seven of his throats at once.
Seven? A muscular spasm made her jump. She had no desire to summon up a mental image of the Black Dragon to check if her intuition was correct. If he was so awesome and all-knowing and crammed to the craw with the unimaginable powers of the Ancient Dragons, what could possibly be preventing him from returning in all his wild majesty to claim the Island-World for his own? Why roar at an Amethyst Dragon through her dreams?
She imagined Fra’anior thundering at her,
Rebellion, is it?
I’ll teach you to rebel!
Ha. I defy you, Black Dragon.
His mocking laughter echoed across the inconceivable leagues and aeons.
Indeed, little one? We’ll see.
Or
had
she imagined it? She had seen and heard so many wild and bizarre things while riding the tempest, Aranya sensed that reality was beginning to slip through her grasp like waters pouring off Islands into the Cloudlands. There was something about the Black Dragon’s behaviour which, oddly, reminded her of her own father–but being disciplined by an Ancient power was a far more daunting prospect.
In a much smaller voice, Aranya said, “What should I do about Ardan and Yolathion?”
“Petal, what does your heart tell you?” asked Oyda.
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
Running from Fra’anior is no solution,
Lyriela put in, but very gently.
You might as well flee from the wind, or seek to cross the mountains at the end of the world.
Thanks, cousin,
she said, smiling wryly.
I wasn’t frightened enough already.
Nak said, “Toss both men into the nearest volcano, Aranya. Grab the Jeradian girl. She sounds positively mouth-watering. I know all about grabbing girls. Did a fine job wooing you, didn’t I, my jewel of Yelegoy Island?”
Oyda’s eyes crinkled at him. “You’re sweet, Nak. Now, to answer your question, Aranya, I was friends with Pip. We both were. She came to us at Jeradia Island.”
“Start your story at the beginning, daft wife.”
“Pip was a Pygmy warrior from the Crescent Islands,” said Oyda. “The Dragon Zardon was convinced there was a new, world-changing power abroad in the Island-World. One day, he winged off to find it. Quite the finest of Dragons, he was. He tracked down our Pip to a Sylakian zoo. She’d lived in a cage for seven years.”
Aranya pressed her fingers against her temples. “Seven years?”
“Aye,” said Nak. “Three feet, eleven and one-half inches tall, she was. Just a mite of a thing. And you forgot that half-inch at your peril. She had my Shimmerith hopping, I tell you.”
“And Nak,” Oyda put in.
“Ha,” he snorted. “I had her cleaning my oldest, smelliest socks.”
“You’d rather slit your own throat than endure that,” said the Dragon Rider’s wife. “Before Pip scrubbed up Nak and Shimmerith’s roost, you couldn’t walk inside for the stench.”
Nak acted so unimpressed by this comment, Aranya had to laugh. He scolded her, “Pay attention, you wayward wretch. Once, Oyda and Emblazon were out on patrol when they were ambushed by Dragon pirates. Pip saved her life. Transformed on her way down, bounced off a mountain, still managed to clutch my Oyda safe in her paws. But the Marshal of Herimor had levitated an entire Island over the Rift, and brought with him literally thousands of Night-Red Dragons, which he had changed somehow and controlled by his power.”
This statement made both her Dragon and Human forms quake simultaneously. Aranya pictured roasting Nak with a handy fireball, the insensitive, uncaring rogue. Aye. She functioned too much as a Dragoness, these days.
“The Dragon Assassins,” Oyda added. “The Marshal controlled them by mind power.”
“The real power was the Shadow Dragon,” said Nak.
Oyda folded her arms ominously. “No, you senile windroc, it was the Marshal of Herimor, corrupting the power of a First Egg.”
Nak’s voice took on a peeved edge. “Who’s telling the story, you demented old bat? Look, the Marshal came from the south with his floating Island, all the way up to Jeradia, where there was a great battle. The shadow creature roamed the Island-World, mesmerising Dragons and drawing them to this Marshal’s Island, where they just disappeared. They acted like stunned ralti sheep. The creature sucked their magic out like marrow from a bone.
Slurp!
”
Before she knew it, Aranya was on her feet, shouting in horror. She tasted blood on her lips. “I-I … Nak! Oh … d-don’t do that to m-me.” Aranya fell back on the couch, grateful for Human arms to hold her.
Thanks, Lyri.
What did you see?
asked her cousin.
A nightmare. I can’t talk about it. I just can’t.
Aranya hid her face in her hands. Dark wings overshadowing her soul, a chill more penetrating than the deepest snows of an Immadian winter, and the awareness of life being leached from her body by an insatiable predator …
“Why do I see these things, Nak, Oyda?” she asked, her voice rising. “Why am I connected with an Ancient Dragon? Why strangle that witless girl? Why did I summon the storm? And how many people did that storm kill, on how many Islands–”
“Stop. Petal, stop,” cried Oyda, rushing over as best she could to grip Aranya’s shoulders. Staring into her eyes, she said, “That’s the Island of madness, Aranya. You are good. Your powers are good. But good is sometimes powerful and dangerous, even terrifying.”
Aranya wanted to grumble, but Oyda silenced her with a look. Perhaps a hundred and seventy-seven years of experience taught a person to do that.
Her words settled deep in Aranya’s consciousness. A terrifying good? Braving its dangers? There were significant choices she could make–and had made–with her life. She was just so confused about Yolathion and Ardan, she could see neither Cloudlands nor Island when it came to them. But what did the state of her heart matter, when the Island-World groaned beneath Thoralian’s iron grip? She had to push those men aside. She’d have nothing to do with Fra’anior’s vision for her future until she understood it better.
She said, “Right. Here are my stupid questions.”
“Stupid can be good, too,” said Nak.
“I think I prefer Oyda’s version of wisdom,” said Aranya, wishing her smile would return to working order. “On Jeradia Island, where did you live?”
Nak said, “Dragon Rider Academy, in southern Jeradia. The school was inside a large caldera.”
“Northern Jeradia,” said Oyda.
Aranya said, “The place which according to all Jeradian scholarship and research, does not exist? No, don’t answer that. What was Pip’s great power, Oyda?”
The two old people looked at each other. “Um.”
Aranya could not withhold the snap of Dragon fire that crept into her voice. “Nak. Oyda. This is important. I need answers. You called her power ‘world-changing’. What could she do? Storms, like me? Move the moons in their orbits? Blot out the suns?”
“No, not storms.” Nak scratched his chin like a dog chasing a flea. “It’s just, I can’t quite remember. Something–aye, she did something to Shimmerith, once. Pip brought her friend the Oraial Ape to the school, and you know how large an Oraial is. Pip had just arrived. Well, this Oraial wandered out onto the field looking for her. The alarm sounded and all the students were barricaded inside the dining hall. Shimmerith–oh, my beautiful darling, Shimmerith–swooped down from a height to attack the Ape. Well, Pip, she was as feisty as a fireball on legs. She smashed down the great doors of the hallway, rushed outside, and shouted something magical. And Shimmerith just stopped mid-air. Aye, I remember now. Caught her like a fly in amber.”
“She stopped a Dragoness mid-air? Held her up with hawsers?”
“No, Aranya,” said Oyda. “Magic. She was strong. Stronger than you or I.”
Suddenly, Ri’arion’s dry voice echoed in her memory, a legend he had related about Ancient Dragon powers. Aranya said, “A Word of Command. She had the power of Command.”